


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by nevernevergirl



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8898169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevernevergirl/pseuds/nevernevergirl
Summary: Eliot considers the world's most emotionally inadvisable threesome.  1x11, Eliot POV.





	

When he wakes up, his limbs feel phantom, and Quentin has Margo’s shirt halfway up and over her torso.

They don’t notice him at first, and he takes the opportunity to consider the possibility he’s experiencing a delusion. He hasn’t ingested anything other than the copious amounts of wine and a decent helping of his own bottled emotions, so he decides there’s a good chance it’s real. Then Q catches his own shirtsleeve on the hook of Margo’s bra and that’s the clincher; his fantasies are usually at least a _bit_ more generous to Quentin.

“Jesus, Q,” he drawls, the words heavy in his cotton-dry mouth. It’s like the sound of his voice snaps them out of whatever magical-emotion-induced-trance-bubble they’d been pulled into-- Quentin startles and Margo yelps before giggling, punctuating it with hiccups. _Honestly_. “Do try to be a bit more graceful. She’s a lady, our Margo.”

“Eat horseshit, Eliot,” Margo quips pleasantly, rolling her eyes. “Or make yourself useful.”

Her eyes sparkle with the dare of it, and they’re playing pretend again. She’s been crying, but she’s nearly naked and Quentin just had a hand on her ass, so they’re definitely playing pretend again. Eliot’s always up for that game-- _literally up,_ in this case, he muses. He takes a solid 30 seconds to weigh the amount of effort it’ll take to lift his head off the pillow against the physical benefits awaiting him before heaving himself up and half-rolling, half-crawling somewhat shakily towards them.

“Oh, I’ll be useful, darling,” he grins like the ches--chestnut? Fuck, definitely still drunk. _Cheshire_ cat. He drops beside Margo with an unceremonious thud, a hand fitting around her waist as the shift in weight causes her to jump slightly upward and back down against him. He nuzzles her neck and takes in the familiar warmth of her skin as he frees Quentin’s sleeve from the terrifying clenches of Victoria’s Secret.

“See? Daddy made it all better,” he murmurs, kissing Margo’s cheek before leaning over her shoulder to kiss Quentin’s as well, pulling away with a loud, wet smack. _That’s attractive_ , he thinks to himself; he snorts out loud, against Margo’s hair. She elbows him in the ribs.

“I. Okay. Um. What. What’s going on here?” Quentin’s not quite looking at either of them, and he’s pulled his hands back. He’s fidgeting. It’s adorable. Eliot’s always thought he was adorable. It’ll be fun to get him to _stop_ fidgeting, though. He could probably manage it easily enough sober, but as off-his-ass as this, it’ll make for a decent challenge.

“ _Don’t_ tell me you were home sick the day they taught sex ed, Quentin. Or did you get the abstinence only variety?” Eliot looks him up and down, tut-tuting exaggeratedly. Quentin blushes red, and Eliot takes a small moment to be pleased with himself.

“Don’t be an asshole, El,” Margo scolds, rolling her eyes. The lines of her neck tense ever-so-slightly, and it’s a jolt to his senses that he quickly tries to tamp down. He is having _fun_ , damn it.

“That’s. No. For fuck’s sake. Jesus, Eliot, you were passed out, like, five seconds ago,” Quentin says, exasperatedly. Eliot smirks, loosening his grip on Margo and ignoring how she shifts away from him automatically. She’s raining on his fucking parade, anyway.

“What can I say? I rebound quickly,” he drawls, quirking an eyebrow. “ _If_ you know what I mean.” The innuendo only sort of makes sense, he knows, but he reasons that it’s clever enough for his current state of mind. Margo shoves at him, putting an extra few inches of distance between them.

“You look like an idiot,” she says, sort of maliciously-- and like she _means_ it that way. Quentin’s face softens in way Eliot’s never seen directed toward _Margo_ , of all people. Q grabs her hand like it’s instinct, and Margo meets his eyes with that fucking _look_ mirrored back. Eliot’s jealous. He’s not sure of whom, or of _what_ , and he hates them both immensely for it.

“Can we ignore him?” Margo asks Quentin-- her tone is dry, but sincere. Quentin gives her a half smirk like he’s seeing beneath her tightly woven surface and presses his forehead against hers. It’s an alarmingly bold move. Eliot feels the teasing tendrils of a temper tantrum curl up in the pit of his stomach.

They’ve fallen outside him.

They can go fuck themselves. Or each other, he thinks. He flops on to his back, watching them kiss as he lets the alcohol in his veins numb any malice. He’s not jealous of this part; sex alone hasn’t ever really been enough to make him jealous. And the idea that sex is or should be equivalent to intimacy is a naive farce, _obviously_.

But this is tender, and it means something, and _they used the emotion bottles too_ \-- he should have been able to _trust_ them on this one godforsaken thing.

Quentin thumbs along Margo’s jawline as they kiss, and she arches against him, muscles taut under her smooth skin as their bodies align. Quentin pulls back to peel off his own shirt, his eyes locked on hers with the understanding that Margo’s trust needs concrete evidence. She unhooks her bra.

Eliot is shaken and he knows it isn’t the sex, even though _objectively_ , it’s not an unappealing thing to watch. He hates that sex feels objective. He hates that he’s still curious for that elusive _more_ . He hates so, _so_ much; he hates that he can’t hate these people. He wants to slip the fuck away and fall asleep. His stomach churns.

Margo shifts in Quentin’s arms and fits against him, backwards puzzle pieces. Quentin traces along the curve of her breast, and it’s simultaneously exploratory and familiar-even-though-it-can’t-be. The metaphor of it knocks the wind out of Eliot, and he inhales sharply. Margo meets his eyes like he hasn’t been deliberately fraying their not-quite- _actually_ -psychic connection for weeks. It hurts. He’s too tired to pretend it doesn’t.

She twists a hand in Quentin’s hair and leans her head back as she tugs Q into another kiss. She breaks away, shifting forward on her knees towards Eliot. He shifts to prop himself up on his elbows as she leans down, almost meeting him halfway. Quentin’s watching them, he’s mere inches away, but a sheet of Margo’s hair forms their own private curtain.

“Bambi,” he murmurs. Slurs, really. “You look stunning tonight. Have I told you?”

“Shut up,” she says. She smiles a little, and he can see her heart breaking in the gently forced curve of it. Something’s just changed. He hopes it’s for the better at the same time that he’s sure it’s not. They kiss: she is warm and enveloping and commanding. She tastes like coming home for Christmas might feel, if he were a person who looked forward to such a thing.

“So,” Quentin says, the nervous shake to his voice breaking the trance of the moment just slightly. “Are we...doing this?”

Margo shifts, settling with her back against his chest, tugging his arm into its comfortable and familiar spot around her waist. She tilts her head back on his shoulder. “What do you think, El?”

He thinks he is longing desperately for the facade of being known. He thinks he aches for the balm of her laugh mingled with his, for the warm security blanket of Quentin’s earnest insecurity. He thinks he wants to hold their hands and pretend it feels the same as it did three months ago.  
He does not think out loud. Instead, he reaches a hand past Margo and pulls Quentin in for a kiss.


End file.
